Fragolino Fuchsia

by Traci Andrighetti

  Fragolino Fuchsia

  a Rome short story (Franki Amato Mysteries 3.5)

  Traci Andrighetti

  Contents

  Story Backstory

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Call to Action

  About the Author

  Also by Traci Andrighetti

  Sneak Peak

  FRAGOLINO FUCHSIA

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  by

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  TRACI ANDRIGHETTI

  Copyright © 2017 by Traci Andrighetti

  Cover design by Lyndsey Lewellen

  Limoncello Press http://www.limoncellopress.com

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Created with Vellum

  Story Backstory

  Thank you for purchasing Fragolino Fuchsia! I hope you enjoy Franki’s romp through Rome. She normally solves cases in New Orleans, where she lives next door to her BFF Veronica in her sixty-something ex-stripper landlady’s fourplex. But I’ve received so many requests to send her to Italy that I decided to comply.

  By the way, Rome is a city I know well. The hotel in the story, Residence Magnolia, is where my husband and I stayed on our honeymoon and where we’ve stayed ever since. The characters of Elio, Silvana, and Enrico are real employees of the hotel who are carissimi (very dear) to us. In fact, Elio introduced me to fragolino, the wild-strawberry liqueur in the title. And I drop a lot of hints about my own Roman adventures in the story, one of which involves annoying gladiators. Another, the Trevi Fountain!

  I also introduce a new character in “Fragolino Fuchsia”—Staci Cecchini (pronounced cheh-kee-nee, my nonna’s maiden name). Staci is an assistant professor of Italian, and she will eventually star in her own series when she starts taking students on study abroad trips around Italy, where they will learn about language, culture, and MURDER! I would love it if you took the trips with her, but from the safety of your own home.

  Baci e abbracci (XOXO),

  Traci

  1

  This office is dead quiet.” Veronica Maggio, my best friend and employer, sunk into the armchair across from my desk at her PI firm, Private Chicks, Inc. “Like a tomb.”

  I could relate to the crypt comment, but not in the silent sense. It was a Monday, and I was on my fifth consecutive hour of helping our sixty-something ex-stripper landlady, Glenda O’Brien, scour the Internet for a “risqué vacay,” so I was pretty much dead inside. “Tulane’s spring break ended today. Shouldn’t David be back at work?”

  She threw up a who-knows hand and then let it flop. “He emailed on Saturday and said that he and Standish were going to try to extend their vacation so they could explore Rome. Apparently, they won’t be missing much in their classes, and I didn’t have a problem with him missing a few extra days here.”

  “Well, the vassal can stay in Italy, but I need David’s help with some research.” I glared at Glenda, who strut-sashayed into the room like she was taking the stage. “And it seems I’m not the only one.”

  Veronica smirked and smoothed her silk floral skirt. “I wish you’d stop calling his friend ‘the vassal.’ You know his name is Standish.”

  “Ever since he had to serve David like a serf for fraternity rush, I can’t think of him any other way.” I tied my long brown hair into a knot on top of my head. “Besides, he did serve me on that plantation case, albeit for free instead of a feudal plot.”

  Glenda parked her behind in the chair she’d pulled next to mine and flipped open New Orleans Magazine. “Speaking of service, sugar, are you going to book me on that last-minute deal or what?”

  “I’m sorry.” The phrase was at odds with the frown on my mouth. “I thought I was a private investigator, not a travel agent.”

  “You are between cases, Franki.” Veronica brushed back her blonde locks. “What is this deal, anyway?”

  “A Booty Cruise to the Caribbean.” Glenda shimmied for emphasis.

  “Booty?” Veronica’s blue eyes brightened. “Sounds like a pirate ship.”

  My gaze hit her like a cannonball. “It’s not.”

  “Oooh.” Her tone and her brow rose and fell like the sea. “When do you leave?”

  “This Wednesday.” Glenda tossed the magazine onto my desk. “So I’ve got to get shaking if I want a new cruise wardrobe.”

  I wasn’t clear on whether “get shaking” meant she had to hurry or pick up some stripping shifts, but either way it didn’t make sense. “Why bother? The cruise is clothing-optional.”

  “Which means I can browse the men’s sporting goods before I sign up to play.” She flipped her platinum wig. “But a lady has to leave something to the imagination.”

  I glanced at her daisy pasties and the tube top she wore as a skirt. “How I agree.”

  Veronica nestled into the chair. “Remember our spring break in Rome, Franki?”

  “Sophomore year was a decade ago. I only remember the wine and limoncello.”

  “What about your illegal swim in the Trevi Fountain?” Her smile was mischievous, verging on malicious. “Surely you haven’t forgotten that.”

  My smile was venomous, verging on vicious. “Not with you here to remind me.”

  “Miss Franki the former-cop-turned-PI broke the law?” Glenda turned to gawk. “Child, I can’t believe that.”

  Veronica kicked her heels onto my desk. “My father got the charges dropped thanks to an attorney at the American Embassy who used to work for his firm. But technically, Franki is a fountain frolicker.”

  “I object to that.” The alliteration was annoying, especially at my expense. “I wasn’t just splashing around. I was obsessed with Marcello Mastroianni, and I was reenacting his fountain scene with Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita.”

  “Alone.” Veronica’s eyes widened to underscore my sad state. “But I understand because I was obsessed too—with the clothing stores on Via Condotti.” She inhaled like she could smell the designer fabric on the chic shopping street. “You’d love Italian fashion, Glenda. When we were there, the hot trend was a colored thong underneath tight, sheer white pants.”

  Glenda batted inch-long yellow eyelashes. “Pants?”

  Most people would question the thong, but my landlady wasn’t most people. “Yes, women have been wearing them for around a hundred years.”

  Veronica’s brow and lips lowered into a be-nice look. “What was your favorite thing about the trip? Besides the fountain, that is.”

  I ignored the jab. “Eating dough at every meal—a pastry for breakfast, pasta for lunch, pizza for dinner.” Even though ten years had passed, I could remember the carb extravaganza like it was yesterday. “And the bars.”

  “I enjoy a good Italian cocktail.” Glenda sounded thoughtful as she played with her pasty petals.

  “Bars in Italy serve alcohol, but the
y’re more like coffee shops,” I said. “Hence the term barista.”

  “Pants over thongs and coffee in a bar?” She crossed her legs, revealing tip jar shoes labeled “Rain” and “Dance.” “Sometimes I don’t understand other cultures.”

  Veronica giggled. “Well, I understand Italy, and I’d give anything to be exploring Rome with David and Standish instead of preparing to go to court.”

  Glenda bounced her leg, shaking the dollars in her shoe. “You practicing law again, Miss Ronnie?”

  “No, I was subpoenaed in an insurance fraud case I investigated.” She scrunched her nose. “The trial starts tomorrow.”

  I opened my laptop. “Don’t be too envious of the boys. The Rome they’re exploring is different from ours. Instead of charming piazzas, men, and accessories, it’s all about ancient amphitheaters, soldiers, and weaponry.”

  The phone rang in Veronica’s office.

  “I’d take ancient Rome over the modern New Orleans courtroom any day.” She pushed herself to her feet. “The gladiators didn’t have a thing on NOLA attorneys.”

  Veronica exited the room, and Glenda kicked a rainmaker in my direction. “Can we finish booking my cruise?”

  I exhaled to suppress a scream and pushed my computer toward her. “You have to pick your, uh, optional activities.”

  “I can’t read that thing. What’re my choices?”

  I grabbed the laptop. A quick glance at the list made me seasick. “Um, how about Skinny Snorkeling?”

  Her shoulders slumped, making her daisies droop. “That involves a mask and flippers, sugar.”

  “And the problem is?”

  She looked at me like I’d lost my oxygen source. “If I’m wearing all that rubber, how can I be nude?”

  I didn’t want to roll my eyes, so I rolled my chair instead. “But you just said that a woman should keep some things covered. In this case, it’s your nose and feet.”

  Her face wilted like her flowers. “Then it’s not skinny snorkeling, Miss Franki.”

  I gazed at the screen and fantasized about sending her skinny scuba diving—without a tank. “What about Sexy Shuffleboard?”

  “Should be a swingin’ time.” She cackled and slapped my arm.

  I did my darnedest not to visualize swingin’ private parts and added the item to the shopping cart.

  Veronica appeared in the doorway looking as seasick as me. “That was Bill Savoie, David’s father.”

  My stomach went from queasy to squeezy. “Did something happen?”

  Glenda puckered and plucked at her daisies.

  “The boys didn’t show up for their flights home yesterday.”

  I scrutinized Veronica’s face. “Because they changed them, right?”

  She gave a stupor-style headshake. “They haven’t been seen since Saturday morning when they left the hotel.”

  2

  Peanuts, pretzels . . .” The blonde Alitalia flight attendant rummaged in an oversized plastic bag. “ . . . or taralli.”

  “The taralli, please.” Given the reason for my flight to Rome, I wasn’t hungry. But like a stereotypical Italian-American, I ate my emotions. And I’d never met a food I didn’t bite.

  “When do the movies start?” My businessman seatmate directed the question at the flight attendant’s rack.

  “As soon as we reach our cruising altitude.” She handed me a package of the savory Italian crackers. “We’re showing Hostage, Taken, and The Missing.”

  I recoiled against the window. It was hard not to think about possible scenarios for David and the vassal’s disappearance, but I certainly hadn’t planned on binge-watching them.

  After stress-eating my salty snack, I slipped a complimentary mask over my eyes and used a pillow to position myself against the side of the plane. If I was going to be of any use to the boys, I had to get some sleep.

  But David and the vassal invaded my mind. They’d been so psyched about the trip that they’d waged a mock gladiator battle in the office the day before they left. They didn’t have Roman swords, so they’d improvised with a weapon common among computer science undergrads, lightsabers—limited edition, no less.

  I punched my pillow. Not only was I the one who’d convinced them to go to Italy instead of WonderCon in Anaheim, I’d even made their hotel reservations. If something had happened to those boys, my Catholic guilt would crucify me for life.

  I had to remember that Italy was safe. In fact, it had a lower crime rate than the United States.

  On the other hand, there were bad people in every country, and all it took for tragedy to strike was meeting the wrong one.

  Of course, there could’ve been an innocent explanation for their disappearance. For instance, given the boys’ obsession with ancient Rome, it was possible that they’d taken the bus to Via Appia Antica, the old Appian Way, and gotten lost in the countryside.

  But even if they were lost somewhere, it was two a.m. on Tuesday in Rome. So, they’d been missing for almost three days. And with every minute that ticked off the clock, the odds of finding them alive dropped.

  The plane hit an air pocket, and I hit my head.

  Probably a message from the universe to stop freaking out and get some rest.

  I fluffed the pillow and returned to my sitting sleep position. Within a few minutes, the hum of the engine lulled me toward la-la land.

  “Mind if we switch seats, Mr. CEO?” The female voice exuded sex and cigarettes. “Or we could share, and I could give you a show.”

  A super turbulence–sized jolt went through me. I recognized that voice. And that offer of a lap dance.

  Has to be a nightmare.

  I nestled deeper into the pillow and tried again to drift off.

  Then I shot up.

  How can I be having a nightmare if I never went to sleep?

  I lifted a corner of my mask.

  The businessman had bailed, and in the aisle was a blue bra and lace-up mini miniskirt with garters and gold pilot wings on each hip.

  The cabin seemed to lose pressure, and I would’ve sworn the plane had entered in a tailspin. “Glenda?”

  She struck a pole-dance pose. “Who the hell else looks this hot?”

  I hyperventilated, and it had nothing to do with the altitude. “Wha- wha- what about the Booty Cruise?”

  “I wasn’t feelin’ it, Miss Franki.”

  Well, I was feelin’ it. And the sensation was equivalent to having all the passengers’ carry-on bags dumped onto me. “How could you not feel the men’s sporting goods?”

  She closed the overhead compartment and sat beside me. “From what Miss Ronnie told me last night, Italian men wear their clothes so tight you can cruise their booty without a boat.”

  Veronica? If she was behind this last-minute trip, I wanted the judge in that court case to throw the gavel at her. Literally.

  “Besides, with the boys missin’, the timin’ wasn’t right.” She put her foot on the seatback in front of her. “And I didn’t have the clothes for a cruise.”

  “And you have them for a trip to Italy?” I eyed her “Fly” stripper shoe, guessing the other said “Me.”

  “I’ve got a whole apartment full of colored thongs, not to mention this Sexy Stewardess costume.” She tightened a bra strap, lifting a breast a solid three inches. “When I wore it onstage at Madame Moiselle’s, it got the men flyin’ sky high.”

  “They’re called flight attendants. And you’re a passenger, so you should dress like one.”

  “You are such a bore, sugar.” She untied the laces on both sides of her pilot-winged skirt to reveal a gold lamé thong. “Satisfied?”

  About as much as Mick Jagger. I couldn’t imagine the chaos Glenda’s getups would cause in Rome.

  A seventyish Italian male peered around the side of the seat she had her shoe on. His eyes pulsated like he was groping her with his gaze, and drool pooled at the side of his mouth.

  “Porco!” The seventyish woman sitting next to him stabbed him with a plastic bu
tter knife until it broke.

  “Ma sei impazzita?” he shouted with his fingers pinched together and his hand bent upward at the wrist.

  The flight attendant hurried down the aisle. “What’s happening? Che succede?”

  “I need another knife,” the woman said in a thick accent.

  Okay, so I could imagine the chaos. And it wasn’t conducive to an investigation. Or to public safety.

  I threw my blanket over Glenda. “Italy is not the French Quarter. You’ve got to cover up.”

  “Why? It’s a free country, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but the men are more forward.”

  “Which is why I’m coming on this trip.”

  I saw a gold lamé glimmer of hope. “This is just a vacation for you?”

  She tucked the blanket around her like a low-cut, strapless mini dress. “I can help you find the boys and enjoy la dolce vita too.”

  I collapsed in my seat. Her sweet life would sour mine.

  “You watch.” She pulled a makeup bag from her purse. “We’re going to get there and find out they hooked up with a couple of young Sophia Lorens for a Roman romp.”

  David and the vassal were players, but not in the traditional womanizing sense. The only female action they saw happened inside virtual reality goggles. “I don’t think so. There’s a lot of family and social pressure on Italian women when it comes to dating. So they’re more guarded than Americans about relationships, and tourists are pretty much off limits.”

  “That’s not what Miss Ronnie told me about the men.” She sprinkled red and green glitter on her chest, evoking the Italian flag. “She said they’re Latin Lovers who appreciate women, regardless of age.”